


paint the town red

by audentis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A little bit of everything really, Aged Up, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Arson, Crimes & Criminals, M/M, arsonist akaashi, i kinda dont know what to tag this under uuhhh, pyromaniac bokuto, very angsty, very very self indulgent, with a hint of fluff, yes its arson, you see kuroo once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audentis/pseuds/audentis
Summary: “We could make fires together. Beautiful ones that you thought were an impossibility. We could tear down towns and cities, walk hand-in-hand, as we marvelled at the destruction left in the wake of Hell’s army.” Cold fingers stroked embittered lips, beckoning them agape. “Will you join me, Bokuto-san? Will you walk with me in a world of flames?”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	paint the town red

**Author's Note:**

> so um...my fingers slipped and i wrote this giant 18k fic in a week...i dont know how i did it either but here it is ;) this is also my first time writing a fic this long so there are A LOT of inconsistencies especially in terms of writing style anyway uh..have fun i guess? 
> 
> PS. read the tags first and proceed at your own caution

> _There is pain in the fire but beauty in the ashes_
> 
> _Will you be there when it all burns down?_
> 
> _There’s no one I’d rather be standing beside_
> 
> _when my rubbled life goes up in flames._
> 
> _When it’s over and the smolder dies,_
> 
> _and the smoke has cleared from our lungs,_
> 
> _we’ll build an empire far away from_
> 
> _the ashen ruins of what came before._
> 
> _We’ll claim a new territory as our very own,_
> 
> _and name it our future._
> 
> _(klr)_

“Interview resumed at 14:35 P.M.”

Breathe it in, the stale air, the putrid stench of sobriety, and temperance. Do you hear it, the drum of mandate, of law, of written rule and spoken order? The whole damn room reeked of it, tailored suits and shined leather shoes, and of ostentatious virtues that were flaunted too much to be considered anything but untruthful.

“Tell me about him.”

An anarchist sat in its midst, such an irony, isn’t it? The very agent of chaos sat, head hung low, a devilish grin on his face, at the center of justice, and peace, and whatever other nonsense those on the podiums enchanted you with, taunting the reddest of the herrings that swam in this deep blue sea.

“What is there to tell?” He asked. There was a twinkle in his eyes, the kind that belonged to a person who could only mean to demean. They were playing his game after all, and this man was just another pawn on the board. 

Yet the pawn did not seem to know this, still twiddling his thumbs, and smirking ever so conceitedly like he knew every little secret this man had burrowed in his subconscious, like he could pick him apart one by one with his own slimy fingers. Please, please, no need for applause, yet the crowd went wild! The man bows, running a hand through greasy hair, he has done the impossible after all, at least he thinks he has.

“We’ve been going in circles for the last twelve hours.” He tries not to grin at his success, but sparkling teeth gleamed through the crack. “You are not going to win, I know you have probably realized that by now.”

Time is a construct, twelve hours was only a fragment of what it would take to unearth all the secrets in this anarchist’s brain. He laughed contentedly at this thought, a maze, a labyrinth, fit to rival even Daedelus’ stretched on in the minefield of crackling synapses, for you see, no one had been able to escape it, not even when guided with a thread of life, and this crude, witless man had just walked in with nothing more than a swollen ego, and a wish to see the flames.

Oh, how he wished to grant that request.

“Have I now, Inspector?” He asked, quietly, so subtly shocked, but it was feigned, a classic Sire de Légal, yet the thickheaded man only put a cigarette to his lips, and smiled. He had fallen into the trap.

“Do you know this man?” He asked plainly, lazily shoving a cracked and taped photo across the cold metal table. He thinks he can win with a single kill, but it should be known, it takes more to wipe out the entire board.

Shove too weak, light too glaring, the photo barely made it past the sizable gash that ran through the rusted steel top. He expected him to reach, to bend over when he knew his shackles were too short. He wanted him to beg, to see the yearning in his eyes as he tried to get a glimpse of his so-called partner, yet captive only stared back at captor, amusement danced wildly in dark blue eyes. 

Let him think, let him play, let the prey have its last breath of stale air, before the predator’s fangs sink into it, devouring it whole.

* * *

“Do you know this man?”

He peered over his glasses, the ones he didn’t really need but liked to keep to look more convincingly innocent. Stray beams of light hit the electronic screen, reflecting his face vividly, but the man smiling through the picture was still clear.  
  


“I’m sorry, I believe I do not.” He said apologetically as he sheepishly grinned. “Why? Has something happened to him?”

“Oh, no.” The stranger said, waving off the suggestion. “He’s a colleague, says he’s gone here to do some research, whatever that means.” He twisted and turned, looking around him in a feeble attempt of locating black streaked hair but to no avail. 

“I could go ask around if you’d like?” He offered when he noticed him pinch the bridge of his nose in unfeigned exasperation.

“It’s alright, don’t wanna waste your time. If you see him though, point him in my direction, if you wouldn’t mind, um, what’s your name?”

“Akaashi.” He replied with a sweet smile. “And of course. I’ll be sure to tell him if I do.”

The man walked out the way he came, not bothering to give a second thought for the quiet librarian peacefully reading at the end of the book ladden corridor. Although, that was probably a mistake. Looks can be deceiving, and Akaashi Keiji knew that better than anyone.

But alas, there were shelves to clean, and books to keep, a second thought could not be spared for anything these days. The hour had been nice, and Bradbury’s 451 had been a wonderful companion, but time did not slow down for one to have the exorbitant luxury of escape.

But was it truly an escape when text mirrored reality, when letters and characters and words quite literally flew from paper to air to take their places on the walks of man? They’d like to keep it lidded, hidden away in ceiling vents where the Hounds can’t sniff them out, but it wafted, the air, with riled uncertainty and the taste for flames, and carnage, anarchy was on its way. However, Bradbury may have exaggerated just a tad bit, you didn’t need 451 degrees to watch the ashes coat the ground.

Gasoline burned at a thousand degrees, butane at two-thousand, and propane at five, but cement only needed a hundred. But the real fireworks never started at the moment of ignition, no, it was the havoc that erupted from the searing gold and orange, the mayhem and bedlam, the Phantom’s fingers of grey curling, digging into the rasping throat, the befallment of man’s structure where there never existed any. 

Most would run, would hide, would cry out to whatever god they so desperately believed in to come and lift them up with a saving hand, but to Akaashi, it was exhilarating, he craved it, the carnage and pandemonium, he hungered for it with the belly of an insatiable beast. Maybe it was because he wanted the world to fall by his own hands.

  
  


Smoke. 

Thick in the air, tainting fresh with soot, there shouldn’t have been any smoke.

But he smelled it.

Where was it coming from?

He needed it.

He wanted it.

  
  


“You smoke?”

That seemed like an obliviously stupid question, of course he didn’t. Ironic, really it is, an arsonist who didn’t like to smoke, but he really did hate it, cigarettes, tobacco, hell, he couldn’t even touch nicotine. It made him dizzy, light-headed, but not in the way curling smoke from Hell’s embers did. There was something about the inhalation of the paper ashes that made him gag more than burned cement flakes. 

“Nope, and wouldn’t dream of it.” He said plain and simple. He hadn’t had a high in days, but he wasn’t that desperate. Fires lit on cigarette’s end seemed much to meaningless to be of any potential interest. Fire without demolition, what good did that do? Ruination of charcoal-black lungs maybe, but he did not care for himself, he’d activated the self-destruct sequence a long time ago. 

“Hmh, fair enough.” 

Smoke. He smelled smoke. He hated cigarettes and tobacco and nicotine, but where smoke bellowed came the white horse of Conquest, and Akaashi could hear its galloping. A human form, perhaps? It would explain the matted white hair, but perhaps not either. Conquest radiated madness and carnage, this man, well, he didn’t know what to make of him.

“Well, want one anyway?” The other said, offering up one of his Seven Stars. Akaashi took it reluctantly, balancing the little white stick on his fingers rather than light it’s end when the lighter was passed.

“Nice lighter.” He said, eyeing the obsidian black box. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Eyes twinkling at the recognition that it was more than just an ordinary tool. “Got it carved out actually, so I don’t lose it.” He said excitedly, tapping the back of it to reveal the engraved crevice of an owl, filled in with liquid gold. 

“You’re that reporter.” Why bother mincing words when it's just wasted breath. Akaashi turned to look at his newest companion, who all but looked up to the blue blue sky.

Smoke curled from his grinning lips all too elegantly, polluted wisps weaving with fresh air in a hazy dance all too enchantingly. “Surprised you recognized me. Didn’t think anyone still watched the news.” 

A devilish sneer, a soft chuckle. “No one does.” He said, still trying to swallow down the sardonic giggle. “Why would we when all of it is filtered, and twisted to match the vision of the monarchy? The only truths that roll off the tongues of the likes of you are needlessly irrelevant.”

“So Mother Nature’s punishments are merely trivial communiqués?” He counter-inquired, eyes sharp, eyebrow raised. Of course he wouldn’t be able to see through the smoke screen of lies he was forced to feed people every day, not even when the real story was inches from his own nose.

“What you are reporting is irrelevant.” He continued, twirling the cigarette in his long fingers. “Announcements from the hierarchy of regulations that ostensibly protect their subjects, and the countless promises of hope and rebuilding, they are all modes of tainted lies, and blightful facts meant to increase poll numbers, and stir public fervor.” 

“I think you’ve been mistaken, I am a news correspondent, not a political analyst. I report on accidents, disasters, not on ballot fraud and the scandals of old men.” He said it with what seemed to be the very silver tongue of truth itself, like he believed every word. Funny. It was not too hard to believe, sheep followed the shepherd, no mind to whether they were being led to a grassy pasture or oceanside cliff. But that was part of his job, was it not? What would a flock be without a wolf to throw it up into disorganization so deep, not even the mutton-eating shepherd could do anything.

“Have you ever considered She might be doing us a favor?” Without bother, it was useless trying to convince a sheep they did not belong to their role in the flock, it was much easier to sow distaste into the soil, and verity in the water.

“She?” He questioned. His name was a shadow, wispy like the smoke he blew, he grabbed the air, but nothing came, only the remnants of cheap cigarettes and lit fumes. He knew the name, but he could not remember. What was it?

“Mother Nature’s punishment, you said.” The youth replied. ”We really are being punished, are we not?”

He considered this for a moment, a surprise really, but sheep were not meant to separate from the flock, or else be faced with a scythe’s blow. “And by a favor you mean?”

“They are not fit to rule.” Akaashi said, perhaps there was hope for this man, whose name was as wispy as the smoke he blew. “The monarchy, authority, the public’s order and badge of pride and safety. Conceited as they are, society belongs to her people.”

“Bokuto! There you are, the hell were you’ve been this whole time?”

Oh, it was him. The one with the too pinched nose, and too tired eyes. He looked much more infuriated this time, he’d ripped his suit jacket.

“Mhm, gotta go.” He sighed, apologetically, glancing over the man before stubbing out the lit fuse with a soiled shoe. One last breath of smoke curling from his lips to the blue blue skies above, a last fuck you to Mother Earth’s punishments, whether they were just that, or something else entirely. 

_Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury._

The tattered book tipped precariously on the ledge as the wind blew through its yellowed pages. The library’s second copy, it had gone missing a month ago, but clearly it had been “borrowed” rather than lost or stolen. Such disgraced treatment of a text, Akaashi bemused as he flipped through the book left behind by his companion, pages folded and singed, some sharp corners even missing entirely, undoubtedly melted away by miniature flames. 

This book had endured much, but it had served its purpose. Akaashi slotted it next to its identical twin, the one he hogged during break times, waiting for the next pair of ears to listen to the whispers of their messages.

_Bokuto Koutarou._ _  
_

That was his name.

* * *

_click._

A tiny flame danced in the wind, flittering from the sparked flint. It was so small, delicate, but he laughed delightedly, it only took a spark to make everything go nuclear. Nuclear? That sounded pleasant, spectacular even.

It had always been his pleasure to see things burn, not for any exact reason of course. Supposedly motives shifted like the seasons, predictably yet unexpected nonetheless, except there was no renewal in his reasons. Spring was the birth, summer was the continuance, fall was the wane, and winter was the death, yet his did not go through these stages like it had been likened to. It was all quite linear to him, spring, summer, fall and winter blended into one, creating the pleasure for flames that kept his head above water, and his feet anchored to the ground.

“Bo, what the hell?!”

“Hmm? Oh.” _Oh._ He hadn’t even realized the lighter drifting towards the leaking gas pump. He quickly retracted. That could have ended spectacularly.

“This is a fucking gas station.” His friend hissed low, snatching it from his hands without bothering to cap it off. “Might I remind you that gasoline doesn’t play well with fire.”

He rolled his eyes, and only sighed. He loved the flames, it held him in place, anchored to this world, but he did not wish to be swept away with the Phlegethon’s fiery current. “Give me a fucking break, Kuroo.” 

“You do this every damn time!” The other said, a little louder now, rage lining the tip of his flicking tongue. “Cut it out unless you want to get caught for real, you twat.”

He held his hand out expectedly, waiting for the black box to be returned to him, which Kuroo surprisingly did without much of a fight. He pocketed it, careful to examine it first for any dents or scratches, there being a distinguishable score on the sleek coat of paint right over the front. He only looked at it intently, mental note to fix it, and beat the shit out of his best friend later.

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry, ok? It’s been a while.”

The other man gave him a push towards the Honda Civic which looked about a hundred and one years old, and with beaten-in bumps and bruises, and chipped off silver, it looked like it had been through the equivalent of a dogfight. Suddenly, he didn’t feel too bad about the single-scratched lighter.  
  


“What are you gonna do without me?” He asked, half with spit sarcasm, half with etched worry, as he unlocked the driver-side door, and slipped into the too compact seat. Bokuto reluctantly followed, opening the left-side passenger door. In the “Rustbucket” as he liked to call it, he normally sat out back, but he had a feeling Kuroo would not take lightly to becoming his designated chauffeur.

“Survive, most likely. I’ll find ways.” It wasn’t like he couldn’t handle himself, people just liked to portray him in that sort of light. The needy, careless child who had to be sheltered by his companions [read: caretakers] or else he would break down into a pathetic, crying heap. He hated it.

“Mhm, you probably will.” He hummed, starting the car, backing out of the gravelled parking space.

“Tokyo is a good move.” Bokuto reassured him, sensing the lingering doubt. “It’s good, it really is.” None of them had asked for this, but it was a necessary arrangement if they wanted to survive in this god-awful world. A creviced friendship between thousands of kilometers, an offering to the sordid universe.

“I know it is.” He responded confidently, yet it was obvious he carried none. The waver, the twitch, the hitting and lowering along the trough, it was all too seen. 

Was this how it felt to be vulnerable? Sure, he’d had his moments of weaknesses, breakdowns in front of his friends, and the occasional fist-to-face argument with his co-workers, but he had never been actually exposed in a way that seemed raw and well, human enough. This, this stage of his life was proving to be the most emotionally taxing yet, and these days, they flooded out of him in tidal waves of grief and despair. So much so, he often questioned whether this was going to be his point of collapse.

A hand scruffed the back of his head, followed by an impromptu pounding with a worn-out fist. “Don’t burn anything down while I’m gone.” Kuroo smirked, more teasing than anything. Leave it to him to bring back the light in the room.

“I’ll try.” He promised, dodging and slapping the hand that was ruining his hair. “I’ll try.”

* * *

_click._

_BOOM._

The architecture had been superb, each stone carved by the hands of a master, that at least Akaashi could appreciate. But the master had built the structure for a swine, who did not deserve this luxury pen to wadle in, therefore it had to go, unfortunately.

But whatever man-made wonder they so claimed as an international heritage could not compete with the wrath of nature’s order herself. And it would come, as promised, like the destruction of Zeus in Olympia, and Herostratus’ embers engulfing Artemis’ holy place, it would come. Though, the cry for Herostratic fame was rightly punished as it should have, as arson should not be a means for glory, but a tool for rebirth.

A phoenix if you would, he liked that metaphor, burned by the fires, revived from the ashes, the eternal cycle of a bird of fire who did not know life or death, despite its wings coming so close to touching each one. That’s what the world needed, did it not? A mythical monster who’s deliverance would make right the wrongs of those who had condemned society to sorrow for the purpose of self-gluttony.

It was paradoxical, yes, contradictory at times, but it was a concept that needed to be grasped, that he had grappled and wrangled with a long time ago. The only way to rid emerald greed would be to purge the infection through the fires of red and gold, and with that signalling renewal. They should be thankful, Akaashi thought as he stared at the tongues that lapped the air, hungry for the fuel that fed them, they would be sent off with dignity intact, and gluttony hidden away, because quite frankly, that was much more than they deserved. 

Akaashi spat on the ground. This man especially, did not deserve such a noble farewell. The very thought of his heinous crimes against the women and children he kept jailed in that dreary cellar of his made him want to expel the contents of his stomach onto the very ground the former slave driver had walked on, although he didn’t think the chicken would have appreciated accepting death only to be laid to rest in defiled land.

“Wh-who are you?” The feeble voice, reminiscent of its owner, twenty-something, barely five-foot, wiry hair, the poor woman had probably been trapped in the Devil’s cavern since she was a teenager. Dozens had been in there with her, but only she had stayed to watch marble pillars of her prison, licked with flames, come crashing down. She now looked at him, ragged and frightened with a newborn in her clutches, _the old politician’s child_. What unreasonable god had such audacity to bring about such a horrible start to an innocent child’s life?

The baby boy shivered as winter’s sharp winds cut through his thin garments. This was, undoubtedly, his first time in the open in his short, squalid existence. Akaashi laid his coat on the bundle, he didn’t need it, the fires would keep him warm.

“I’m the Phoenix.” He whispered assuringly, the woman only widening her eyes with apprehension and surprise and rundown confusion. “If the police ask, it was one of the boilers in the basement. It’s too rusted for its own good.”

She gave a frightened nod before bounding to the edge of the field to join her companions on their journey to newfound freedom. He hummed contentedly as he looked at his creation, the old pig had been roasted with the rest of his fodder, and a child would be given a new life.

_Burned by the fires, revived from the ashes, the eternal cycle of a bird of fire who did not know life or death._

* * *

“Cut! Yep, ok, that was great.” 

Bokuto groaned, that clip had required of him more than he initially thought. As soon as the cameraman’s lenses slammed shut, he collapsed to the ground, hugging the warm grassy earth. Of course, that was before he realized he had a white shirt on, and that it would definitely get soiled from the wet dirt.

“Can’t we cover something more exciting than fried electrical wires?” He complained, as he sat up to brush the, thankfully, dry particles that had clung to the stark white fabric. They had been reporting on the damages the latest typhoon had hurled at the city, which had been nothing more than a few toppled trees, and the bursting of several transformers which had all in all done nothing. “I mean, even if there were people affected by the power outage, which there are none, might I add since this place is fucking abandoned, how do you think they’d watch any TV with no electricity?”

“Ya have something better in mind?” His clearly harassed colleague asked for what seemed like the fifth time today.

“Fires up in the north barely have any coverage!” He exclaimed, flapping his hands around, seemingly to prove his point, and not to look like a flailing owl. “It’s a good story too, the bosses are sure to like that!”

If he had not still been sitting down, he would have really started to flail as a stray unknown object rocketed to his head. “For the love of god, how many times do we have to tell you, it’s too fucking dangerous! All media has been barred from the area after that Kyoto crew almost got trapped in!”

He huffed defiantly as he picked up the heavy, bound manila folder from the ground. “I just wanna see it up close once then I’ll never bother anyone again! It’ll be mutually beneficial!”

The man seemed to actually consider it for a moment, and Bokuto clung to the hair-thin thread that he did, but quickly let go once the man turned to walk back to the van. “As tempting as that is, it’s still a no.” He called back over his shoulder. “I’d rather have you pestering me like a damn mosquito than burn in the literal flames of hell.”

At the mention of the flames, his hands itched at the pocketed lighter, the one with the scratch he still had not bothered to fix, picking at the stitches, tapping and tugging all the same. Fire, fire, he needed to see the fire. It had been hours, days, days too long, and the bottomless beast hungered for more. 

There was nothing around them, the nearest gas station was fifteen minutes off road, the nearest biodegradable garbage chute was two, but that would involve blowing up half the residential area which would honestly count as a favor to the local government who still had not bothered to demolish the old town for so-called posterity. But his hands itched, his stomach grumbled, it no longer wanted to see the flames, it wanted to start them.

“Bokuto-san?” The crew’s manager called out, as she helped load the last of the equipment into the trunk.

“Huh, oh yeah, ju-”

Sirens? What the hell were the police doing here? Bokuto thought the air was playing tricks on him, that that fall to the ground did more than just soil his shirt, but no. The rubber tires cruising along the unpaved road, and the noisy engines desperately feeding the metal machines with the toxic fuels it needed to get up the vertically inclined hill came unfiltered through his ears.

One, two, three, four. Four police cruisers emerged from the summit, kicking dust in their wake as they barrelled down towards them, blue and red still flashing from their roofs, blinding anyone in a one-hundred meter radius who dared to stare them down. The lead car halted with a screech, and an worn old man stepped out. 

“Bokuto Koutarou?” He called out even before his grimy boot hit the ground. His voice was not warm to the ear, low and baritone with a metallic scratching at the end of each breath, yet it conveyed an air of authority, something his subordinates seemed to obey. Bokuto felt compelled to reply.

“Yes, officer.” He waved as he walked towards the man and his murderous entourage. “That’s me. What’s this about?”

_click._

Such courtesy of a kind gesture should have been returned, right? Apparently this man did not know much about courtesy, either that or he just didn’t care. Without even so much as offering up a handshake, he motioned at the stoic man on his right who promptly slapped the cold handcuffs onto his wrists.

  
  


“You’re under arrest.”

* * *

The room was dank, dark and dreary, and that was putting it nicely. It was windowless, colorless, with barely any breathing space, one faint light bulb stuck in the middle of the ceiling and zero ventilation, and it reeked, of what he didn’t bother investigating, it just reeked. 

The man walked in, old and worn-down as ever with wire-frame glasses, and a billowing tan coat even with the heaters on at maximum. He regarded his new prisoner with cold, calculating eyes, and nothing more than a stony stare before setting himself onto the interviewer’s chair. 

“Sit down.” He said, without so much as a second glance, pointing to the other, more battered interviewee’s chair. He complied. 

Folders were dumped out of a brown satchel bag that was as worn-out as the man who was known for carrying it. An impressive mountain of papers, ripped, torn, folded, yet some still starch white, and newly inked, it was like he had been presented with years worth of used papers. But as his eyes flitted through whatever had remained visible in the mounted stack, it dawned on him. They weren’t random pieces of paper, they were case files, and records, and profiles, dozens of them dating back to at least a decade before.

“You claim to have nothing to do with the fires.” The old man said as he sorted through the dump. It seemed more like a statement given by a dictator more than a rhetorical question spouted by the subhead of the precinct. 

“I mean.” He spread out clasped hands as a show of resignation. The files were clearing up, and he was trying his hardest to absorb as much information as possible. “I wish I had, I would have loved to have created those.” He said, sheepish grin spread wide over where it was not supposed to.

The papers stopped shuffling, and the Inspector looked right at him with the same cold eyes as when he had first entered the stuffy room. He levelled his gaze with his captive’s and clicked his tongue once in rage or confusion or simple agitation, Bokuto did not know, nor did he need to find out.

“Yet you say you didn’t light them.” He said calmly, well, as calmly as rasp mixed with grinding metal could be.

“Clean your ears, officer.” He said, wicked grin growing even wider, eyes flickering as dangerous as ever. He leaned forward in competition with the decades-older man. “I said ‘wish’, not ‘did’. There’s a difference.”

“Inspector.” He growled through gritted teeth. Pathetic, Bokuto thought. A pledge promising to serve only trumped by an intangible position that fed his ego, and popularity. “And only the mentally insane would even think about saying that which makes you all the more reason to be a suspect!” He continued, slamming his hand into a sizable dent in the table, sending papers fluttering to the floor.

He tutted in response, he’d been hoping this man to be more reasonable than that brute that made skin indentations on his wrists from the force of the cuffs but clearly, this is where the man had gotten it from. “That’s no way to treat you guest!” He said with feigned disappointment, but the fires inside were already being stoked. “I am your guest, by the way, since I technically haven’t been charged with anything yet.”

A twitch, a second, a third, balled up fists went white with the restraint of not assaulting a guest in their house. Time slowed, his breath evened out, the twitch, two, one, none, disappearing just as faint beige flushed back to paled knuckles. He rubbed his temples, _calm yourself_ , but the man before him made that quite difficult. He had a knack for it, it seemed, liquid gold eyes that pierced into your very being, and pearly white smile that could be met as charming, or downright psychotic.

He pushed himself up, unwilling to fill in the extra paperwork aggravated assault would hand to him. Just then, a knock on the one-wayed mirror, thank god for vigilant colleagues.

“What is it?” He whispered through the crack in the door. The man on the other side only shook his head, extended hand clutching just another manila folder that could cause him his whole career. He rubbed his temples again, for what seemed like the fourth time in the hour. He should charge aspirin fees to the department.

“You’re free to go.”

  
Bokuto looked pleased, though not surprised in any manner. He had expected this after all.

“So you did clean your ears.” He exclaimed delightedly, as he snatched his coat from the back of his chair. “Well, you’re much more cooperative than people let on!”

“If you have any information-”

“Like I’d tell you.” He said, innocent enough, as he continued to display that grin that could have deceived even the most skilled behaviorists. “Have a nice day!” He waved at the old man, who merely stood, rooted to the ground, undoubtedly cursing at whatever god made him waste hours of his life chasing bluff’s rabbit.

He took his leave, too waving at those he passed who only looked at him with a stare meant for someone who had gone insane. He supposed he was a little mad, but they didn’t need to know that. As he stepped out into the stately courtyard, he sputtered curses that surely rivalled the old Inspectors.

The day had gone, the night had passed, it was half past two in the morning. _Fourteen hours_. That’s how long he’d been there. They really didn’t have any sense of decency, those cops, at least they got paid for overtime. They hadn’t even bothered giving him a ride home! It could have taken him all but five minutes to reach home in a car, but the moon shone high in the sky, and the hours had already ticked by. He made an executive decision, fifteen minutes then.

And so he set off on foot, past the shut curtains, and glaring streetlights, and passed out drunks on the streets who, even this sleepy little town wasn’t exempt from. This was strange, he mused as he approached another intersection, it was a bleak contrast to what these streets usually were when sunlight streamed in through gaps in the concrete giants, loud and noisy, cars swerving in and out of lanes as the throngs of people weaved their way through the enigmatic crossroad in a cautious waltz of man and machine, but tonight, a precious serenity befell on it, leaving those who wandered in awe of the silence it was capable of holding.

But it only took a drop of a pin to shatter that fragile tranquility.

  
  


The pin manifested invisibly, so faint, you could have walked right past it. Most people would have, the odor would have been nothing more than a whiff of foul-smelling poison, but the years had only propagated his hypersenses, and he could smell gasoline. 

A gas leak would have been likely, when the lambs came home, not properly shutting off the main before heading to pig’s sleep. _Ignore it_ , his head beat the drums in his skull, _you haven’t had rest since last night, it’s a hallucination_ , but what phantasm only grows stronger by the steps on the pavement?

His fingers itched, picking on the stitches of cotton pants, thumbing the little obsidian box that lit those cheap cigarettes he liked, or occasionally a trail of fuel. He no longer wanted to see a fire, he wanted to start one.

_The alley. It was in the alley._

Why an alley would have such a strong odor of gasoline should have been the first question on anyone’s mind, but it had probably been established that Bokuto Koutarou was not just about anyone. He had a finer palette for the flames, you see, and once those golden eyes had locked on a target, he would stop at nothing till he had waltzed in its charred ashes.

His lungs burned, his eyes watered, his head throbbed, his fingers itched, he breathed it in, all of it. He hadn’t had a high in weeks, and he shivered at the thought of the taste of blackened cement on the tip of his tongue again. 

“Hello, Bokuto-san.”

It was dark, pitch-black actually in the rubbished alley with no lights, only a tiny ember from a lit match. It grew, and grew and the owl’s vision sharpened to focus on the figure controlling the flame. 

Oh. It was him. The librarian he’d offered one of his Seven Stars to, the one with the pretty blue eyes, and the silver tongue of steel. He had been wearing glasses that day, but Bokuto had suspected they were merely an accessory, it seems he had been right. 

“I never got your name.” He said, voice little more than a whisper in the wind that encircled the flame.

“Akaashi Keiji.” The other said as the flames danced in his eyes, giving him the striking image of a demon sent by Satan himself. Now what could such a malevolent spirit want with him?

“Mhm, so you’re the firebug the news has been rattling on about.” He smelled nice, gasoline and lamp oil with a delicate balance of cedar wood and cinnamon bark. Bokuto would not have liked this to be his first impression of him, but with mere centimeters between them, it was hard to ignore.

“I thought you were the news.” He arched an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk spread on his face.

“An unremarkable, insignificant part of it, yes.” He tried to push away, but it was impossible. He was gravitational, it entranced him in a way little had before. If anything, he wanted more.

“Firebug.” Akaashi mused, a soft breath escaping through pursed lips. “I prefer the term ‘arsonist’. It has a better ring to it, does it not?”

Arsonist, firebug, whatever it was, he didn’t care. He smelled like the gas station at half past noon, when vehicles would queue up, taking terms at leaking pumps, diesel, petrol, gasoline wafting in the air. He’d heard the rumors, he’d made his assumptions of a psychotic warmonger who wanted nothing but to tear the world down with him in his descent into madness, admittedly, he’d been wrong, there was nothing to fear. 

Or maybe he was right, maybe he was a psychotic warmonger who, like the stories said, took delight in the sight of the flames of Hell, dancing through the destruction, and cackling with glee as he took charred remains, and set them ablaze once again. Looks could be deceiving after all, and the guilty had gotten too good at masking with innocence. 

“Well, Bokuto-san? What’s it going to be, turn me in or join me?” He sang gently into his ear. They were so closed, too close, he tried to pull away but no matter how hard he tried, he only got dragged in deeper.

“Depends.” He nodded down the alleyway that was not actually an alleyway. Rubbished, and diseased, it had been a perfect covering for the yawning entrance of the abandoned textile factory. “Have you set the fuse?”

“You wound me.” The younger said, feigned hurt lining his every word. He pulled away as he strode to the once barricaded entrance. “Put a little more faith in me next time?”

Bokuto learned to breathe once again, having been so close to the other, he had forgotten about the mortal necessity almost entirely, “The whole building?” He called out to the retreating man.

He momentarily stopped, five feet away from the door to turn to him. “Is that fright I hear?” He asked, a slight venom to his voice.

He shook his head dutifully, only to realize he was shaking. Practically vibrating, his steps had an uncharacteristic bounce to them, and his fingers fidgeted with anything within their reach, but it was not from terror, far from it. The euphoria made him light-headed too, jolts of lightning shooting through his veins. This was the high he was looking for.

He followed the other into the lobby, ransacked and rundown by the looks of it, but the smell of fuel was stronger than ever. At their feet, the unmistakable glisten of translucent yellow revealed itself through the gloom. His lungs burned, his eyes watered, his fingers twitched and tapped at the obsidian black box in his pocket, he needed to start a fire.

“Wait.”

_Huh?_ He was an inch from the ignition point, and he expected him to wait? And what the hell was he handing him? “What’s this?” He asked, utterly confused at the plastic container he’d just been given.

“You want to touch the flames, don’t you?” He asked innocently, too innocently for someone who meant any real good. He unscrewed the cap, _mint_ , but what was inside was definitely not mint. It was disgusting, to be frank, clear coagulated paste that clung to the container’s sides as it rocked back and forth. He’d never particularly been inclined to slime in any way, really, but he guessed, no, he knew what the mystery substance was, whether it could be trusted or not was the question.

“Is it edible?” Seems like an odd thing to inquire about fire repellant, but hey, he was curious! Maybe it was the minty fumes it was giving off, that in itself was a dead giveaway that this was not commercialized.

“Is that a joke?” Akaashi asked, for the first time, genuine confusion etched into his features. “Apologies, but I could never quite distinguish.”

“Mhm, partially.” He hummed, still intently staring at the sloshing liquid.

The other seemed to take this as an acceptable reasoning. “It’s my own creation, completely non-toxic. Commercial fire repellants tend to poison the user, and we can’t have that, can we? They taste bad too, it’s not recommended for consumption.” He said, disgust tingeing the last sentence. He made a detestful face too, the kind that constructs itself based on a horrid memory you’d rather push to the back of your mind. The man that stood beside him was at best, still a mystery to him, he wondered-

“So you’ve eaten it before?” His mouth, regrettably, acted faster than his brain. 

Stone golem would have been a good descriptor for his companion. Whether he meant it or not, Akaashi Keiji was unreadable. Even if Bokuto had been able to make out his reaction to the absurd question through the ill-lit space, there was continually no guarantee he would be able to truly make sense of it.

He pondered it for a minute, possible answers thrown into the tornado that shielded his brain before he did the unexpected. An amused snort escaped the man’s usually dignified nature, followed by regaled giggling. Bokuto wished for that light right about now. 

“Hurry up, and light it already.” He managed to voice out through stammering breaths. Bokuto had little choice but to comply.

A tiny flame danced in the wind, flittering from the sparked flint. It was so small, delicate yet it only took a spark to make everything go nuclear. Nuclear? That sounded pleasant, spectacular even.

It had always been his pleasure to see things burn, to watch as they were eaten away till nothing but charred black was left. He loved every part of it, the crisp scent, and bitter taste, but he loved the embers most of all, the roar of the flames as they licked the sky in their fiery escapade. It was enthralling to the deprived youth, who found warmth in the blazing heat.

_click._

_BOOM._

It was spectacular, no, it was beautiful. Pitch black immediately swallowed up by Vulcan’s red and gold, each of its arms stretching up through the gloom, illuminating the structure for all to see. The Phantom crept up on them, grey mandibles encircling the air around them in a hazy waltz. Its touch tickled, but he did not choke. His heart drummed, his head spun, all he could do was gape in awe. How could he not as he stared into the face of the greatest beauty?

“Go on.”

He wandered towards the ember’s edge, daring to scoop a handful of flames. It did not burn, it did not sting, blackened it did not become as it waltzed tantalizingly on the outstretched palm, too daring to delve to the edges of the clotted liquid. His fingers did not itch, no longer picking at the stitches of worn jeans, drumming at the obsidian box that had been pulled from his pocket. It turns out the insatiable hunger of the beast could be satiated, because at the sight of the wicked flames, it laid asleep, satisfied.

The younger man only watched as his companion stared wide-eyed at the arcane red. He would have to wait, he thought passively, before his hunger for the carnage would too be satiated, but for the time being he was perfectly content watching the other play with the flames. 

One more thing before he could reward himself on a job well done. The torn paper had been kept insulated in his pocket, unwilling for it to be ignited prematurely. He produced it, carefully smoothing out the folds, despite knowing this would not do much. Walking up to fire’s edge, he laid it on ground that the fires had started to overrun. 

“May whoever finds this be dealt a blow by the sword of Lady Justice.” He whispered, before retreating as he watched it be consumed by greedy arms.

“Do you like how it feels, Bokuto-san.” He whispered, leaning over to spectate this ghastly waltz.

 _Yes, yes, yes, yes._ “Yes.” It was more than he could have ever craved. As a boy, he had always dreamed of touching the flames, despite those who carefully guarded him driving him away at any mere mention of fire. He had grown up realizing it was impossible, you only touched Hell’s embers if you had a death wish. Suppose he had one, but he had resigned himself to knowing they were a gateway to what was after, and welcoming them would be crossing an immutable doorway.

Yet here he stood, at the shores of Hell, touching the flames of death, breathing in the air of life all the same.

“Do you want more of it?” He asked, the flames more violent than ever.

 _Yes, yes, yes, yes._ “Yes.” Why the hell wouldn’t he? He’d seen and done, come and gone, but he always knew he would have to come back eventually. A man who had known what it was to be rich would surely desire to see those riches again, if not more. But Bokuto was different in the way he did not care for materialisms, they only meant to demean, no, his trigger was the fire, the very embers that danced on his fingertips, the rapid oxidation and combustion that fueled him. Air was to fire, like oxygen was to a human, but completely circumventing that process, fire was his air, and he needed more, he wanted more. 

But of course, Akaashi did not need any more confirmation for a fact that he already knew. Anyone who knew Bokuto and had even the slightest idea of what was going on beyond that plastered smile, and golden eyes would know. The beast, no matter how full a meal had made him, would always come back, it was impossible to hide.

“We could make fires together. Beautiful ones that you thought were an impossibility. We could tear down towns and cities, walk hand-in-hand, as we marvelled at the destruction left in the wake of Hell’s army.” Cold fingers stroked embittered lips, beckoning them agape. “Will you join me, Bokuto-san? Will you walk with me in a world of flames?”

It was cold, so cold. He shivered as the gel hit his tongue, but it was alright, the fires would keep him warm. It clung to the finger, stubborn little thing that it was. He flicked it off with his tongue which caused the other to flinch in surprise, but he did not retract. 

The younger had already slipped the little obsidian black box from his pocket before he even realized, and held it up to his lips. The flame that danced on its flint seemed so small in the foreground of the raging inferno behind them, but it only caused a little to go nuclear. 

The fire felt warm as he dipped his tongue in the lighter’s red and gold, it felt like home. It did not burn, it did not sting, blackened it did not become, it only danced in a ghostly waltz, daring to flare at before dying out as it might. 

  
  
  


_And we shall light a fire they will not be able to put out._

* * *

“No manifesto was ever released, nothing was delivered to police in any prefecture?”

“No warning either, Inspector.” Suzuki said, matter-of-factly, crossing his arms as the chair creaked weakly from his hazardous lean back. “It seems like a random expansion.”

“Which is extremely uncharacteristic of him.” He sighed exasperatedly. “His selection of targets has always been meticulous and methodical, each with a specific purpose, no, this was not random at all.”

A frantic flurry of knocks, followed by the bounding in of a man who did not wait for permission to be admitted. He held something in his hand, but his movements swayed too much, it was difficult to make out. “Sir, you have to see this.”

“What is it?” He asked, thankful for a reprieve from his dead-ended train of thought.

“Piece of paper found in the crime scene.” Lo and behold, a charred paper, no longer than a pen, scorched at its edges, ashen to extendable oblivion, sat blamelessly in the clear evidence bag. He slipped on his wire framed glasses to observe but it was a fruitless cause. It was much too damaged, ink much too blackened and bled to be discernible in any normal manner. It was a miracle this of all things was pulled out from the rubble.

“And? It’s a piece of paper like you said.” The other who was present pointed out indifferently.

“What does it say?” The newcomer asked rhetorically. Surely he did not mean for them to spell the fine print out.

“Ok, enough with the puzzles, what is it?” Impatient as ever, but greatly in need of some hint at success. The Commissioner had made this a top priority. With corruption, and dissent brewing among the very population, he did not need a weaponized firebreather waging war on his city. “What makes this so special, because to me it looks like a fucking paper that got lucky.”

“It’s from a book, sir. The first line of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.” He stated like it was common knowledge to even the illiterate, but his eyes gleamed with a wild amusement that had not been previously perceived from the known bibliophile. “I don’t know what it means exactly aside from being rather ominous, but I believe it was meant to survive the fire.”

The suggestion was met with immediate thatched on looks of disbelief, and criticism or a mixture of both, but he did not retreat in his attempt of convincing the top brass this was a lead that was worth committing too. “It was coated in some sort of homemade fire repellent gel which preserved it almost perfectly.”

Criticism waned, and disbelief stayed, now blending with the air of pure shock from the revelation. “So you mean-” Suzuki managed to sputter out, eyeing the not so blameless paper. “It was meant to be found.”

“Yes.” The younger confirmed, beaming quite proudly at having found this crucial indicator. 

The Inspector leaned over again in another futile attempt of studying the two-dimensional implications this little slip of pressed pulp held. It was much more apparent this time, that this had not simply been fortuitous. 

  
  


_It was a pleasure to burn._

* * *

“Oy, did you see what happened last night? 

Five minutes earlier, the anchor had been going off about some economic downturn that was predicted to happen in the next year or so, and one that had bored the hell out of everyone, including those who had written that very news cue. Five minutes later, at the commencement of the breaking news sequence, all eyes were glued to the screen, ears eating up every word disgorged from the snake’s jaws as he fallaciously jabbered about last night’s “attack”.

“Mhm, my house is five minutes away, I saw the smoke.” He said plain and simple. He hoped he’d been able to swallow down the maniacal laughter enough for it not to be carried by his words, but it was a somewhat difficult watching the broadcast of his own handy work, colleagues hanging onto the police’s every promise of jailing the culprit responsible, while he was standing in their very wake.

“Looks like the Firebug has finally struck.” The shorter man pondered, not bothering to retract his gaze from the electronic screen. How stupid really, this is how the government spoonfeeds them all that deceitful garbage troll farms cook up in the sewers of the city, but Bokuto pitied them. After all, would you not take a meal that had been served to you on a silver platter?

“Don’t worry too much about it.” He said light-heartedly. He did not need to pretend for this first statement, he didn’t think there needed to be any concern considering he was not about to blow up some random colleague’s house just to make a point. “The police will catch them for sure!”

That second one was definitely a lie, but if anyone had realized that, they did not dare flinch. “Mhm, I hope so. Uh, by the way.” The other turned, finally yielding to the staring contest he’d been having with the anchor. “What was yesterday about? Boss won’t tell us anything.”

“Ah yeah!” He scratched his head, giving an awkward grin as he attempted to formulate some sort of alibi for last night’s incident. “Mistaken identity!”

“Mistaken identity?” He repeated.

“Yeah, something about armed robbery in Kyoto, I didn’t really listen after they realized it wasn’t me.” Shit, hopefully that was convincing enough. He had, in fact, prepared an excuse, but with his energy level at the equivalent of sixteen espresso shots, it had slipped his mind completely. It’s alright, they’re probably too sightless to realize.

“So everything’s good now?” He asked, no trace of suspicion or reasonable doubt in his words. God, he was stupid.

“Yeah! No worries! By the way, could you cover for me for a few hours? I gotta meet up with a source.”

He’d already begun round two of the tense staring contest, pupils pinpoint in competition with the unblinking man.. “Don’t be gone for too long, it’s going to get hectic in here real soon.” He murmured, already droning off. Bokuto grabbed his coat and hurried off before they snapped out of their trance.

  
  


“Kashi-kun? What is it?”

The younger man looked up, default expression of unreadability on, but there was something else behind the stone cold Medusa, shock, amusement, a mixture of both, or something else entirely?

“You came?” He said it was more of a question, implying that he had, in fact, not expected Bokuto to obey his request. Did he really expect that little of him, he pondered as he weaved through the stacks of books that looked to have been piled deliberately, rather than dumped there, awaiting pianist’s hands to lead them back to their respective homes.

“Well, put a little faith in me too, yeah?” Two could play this game, and he was not about to lose this one.

What should have been a snide retort only manifested in the formation of a soft smile on the other man’s face. A genuine smile. It was strange to see such a feature of joy coming from him. The edge of his lips crinkled as if they were not familiar with the gesture, his hands momentarily stopped flipping through yellowed pages in seeming shock over its owner’s shown vulnerability. He did not smile very often, Bokuto realized. He should do it more though, he mused to himself, he was beautiful after all.

“What’s all this?” He inquired in an attempt to stop the unprompted fluttering of his heart.

His smile did not wane, if not, only growing wider as his eyes lit up behind thin lenses he only wore for show. “Our next target.” He responded as he leisurely examined the opened book that he deemed even older than the library itself.

It was too much of an ominous topic to discuss here, people milled around haphazardly through the many book-ladden lanes, and one extended ear of eavesdropping could put an end to the blossoming ploy.

“You sure it’s safe to discuss this here? I mean there’s a lot of people around.” He asked worriedly, as he glanced around, particularly anxious about a middle-aged woman who had started to saunter over to their general direction.

“It’s perfectly fine, the wonders of the common decency of respectful privacy.” Akaashi did not seem bothered by the threatful spies that walked among them. Maybe Bokuto should have relaxed slightly at the attempt to reassure his jittery nerves, but it only made him tense up even more as he glanced over to the two coated men propped up against the front desk.

“So this unspoken rule.” His fingers tapped nervously at the black box he had always relied on when things went south. “Are those officers in on it too?”

This proposition seemed to lift the other from his usual air of pacificity. He perked up from his insightful read, the crinkles on the edge of his lips transitioning to a down turn.

“Wait here, not a word to anyone.” He snapped the book shut, and hopped up from the walls he had constructed around him, brushing dust off his fuzzed sweater as he trotted to their unwelcome guests.

“Um, hello!” Akaashi sincerely did not feel like dealing with these two suck-ups on such a nice morning, but the universe really found ways to shatter that inert tranquility he so desperately yearned for. “How can I help you?”

The men blinked, confused at the sudden approach of this slight man from behind the volume filled aisle. If Akaashi had known they needed to process all of this, he would have offered to excuse himself to finish his assigned readings before meeting with them at a later date, when their feeble minds had finally put two and two together. Thankfully, such drastic methods did not need to be employed.

“Do you recognize this?” The one on the left said, being the first to make sense of the situation, he pulled a small plastic bag from his partner’s pocket, handing it over gingerly.

“Mhm, a line from a book I assume?” He hummed, he really did hate how stupidly naive these people were, but he’d learned, a long time ago, how to control that fiery rage he was known for. He jammed an earphone up to his inner lobe, determined to not bubble over yet again.

“Fahrenheit 451 to be exact.” The infamous title seemed foreign to his lips, tongue flicking on tones where it was not supposed to, and cords emphasizing numbers rather than phonetics. The observation had likely not come from him which made Akaashi’s job abundantly simpler. “It seems someone’s missing a copy, we’d like to know if it was one of yours.”

“Highly unlikely.” He shook his head defiantly as he passed the evidence bag back to the gloved hand. “I handle that section, they were both there when I last checked. Was this from, uh, the fire last night?” He leaned in at the question, giving the pretense he was eager to keep a lid on the panic such a question could cause. Of course, they did not know of the rule.

Two pairs of eyes met each other, a silent argument of spears and swords waged in the empty space before the one on the right side, nodding reluctantly at the triumphant man. The husky voice came at no more than a mumble. “We’d rather you not divulge this information but yes, we found it in the wreckage.” He croaked out, still throwing up psionic daggers at his associate.

“I see, well it’s not from one of ours then.” He splayed his palms, hoping to aid them in digesting the thought. “They’re both still there, if you’d like to check, I’d be happy to bring them over.”

“No need.” Both waved their hands dismissively. Typical of them to not want to investigate thoroughly in the hopes of sparing minutes for lunch. “Thank you, and sorry for the disturbance.”

“No problem!” He said cheerfully as he tugged the last allegro of Vivaldi’s Autumn from his ear. No need for such hymns now, not when winter was already approaching.

How foolish, he thought, as he watched the cloaked men walk out the door, not bothering to give a second thought to the innocent-looking librarian they had just spoken too. A second thought could not be spared for anything these days, even if they pertained to the very thing that so encapsulated their minds. Looks can be deceiving. Akaashi Keiji knew that better than anyone.

* * *

“It’s not from one of theirs.” 

“Are you sure?” asked the third. 

“That’s what they say.” The first shrugged. “Why would they lie?”

* * *

_click._

_BOOM._

The building went easily. First the glass, then the brick, then the structural pylons. It was almost comical really, legends told by its former guardian said it was built in two parts, the first phase beginning in the wake of the First World War, and the second right after the company’s recovery from the Great Depression. _Twenty years_ , Akaashi mused as the last fragments of what used to be a monumental structure crashed down to the earth, so old Watanabe could not see his child of concrete fall. It was a shame, it had collapsed all in the span of twenty seconds, it seemed.

“Gasoline would have been better.” He stated, stepping to his new partner’s side. To the untrained eye, the devastation would have looked appalling, complete erasure of an establishment that had embattled, and withstood the test of time itself, but even through the fogged lenses of glasses he did not actually need, the arsonist noted the job could have been done better.

Bokuto looked perpetually unconvinced, as always. He’d surveyed the fires as well, yet he clung onto his proposition. “It’s too reactive. In plus, kerosene’s easier to ignite.” He said as he gestured to a particularly ravaged part of the debris. The nearest evidence of civilization was more than thirty miles out, which was probably for the best. The shockwave was enough to liquify the earlobes of the unsuspecting passerby, and ricocheting debris would have been enough to kill a man, or two.

“Yes, but reactivity trumps ignition.” This argument was not going to be let go so soon, it seemed. “I’ve used gasoline before, I can handle it.”

“You’ve never used gallons of it though, have you?” The other man asked.

Akaashi only sighed as Bokuto got another sure point in. “Touché.” He said, flicking a finger at him before circling to observe the damage from afar. 

“Where are you getting it in the first place, anyway?” He asked, bouncing around curiously. Where he got this kind of energy, he did not know. He could barely get up for the day after a cup of coffee, hardly passing as functioning with two.

“I know someone.” He snapped without intentionally meaning too. “That’s all you need to know.”

Bokuto stayed silent, worrying him that he had gone too far, but it seems he did not take mind to the man’s particularly jolting words. “So much for being partners-in-crime.”

“It’s a righteous crime.” He answered back argumentatively as he stopped at the peak of the low hill. 3.0 on the Richter scale was barely anything to pride yourself with.

“What does that even mean?” Bokuto asked, fighting back just as hard. “It’s like saying ‘legal crime’.”

Akaashi scoffed, these were the things the world failed to see through the smokescreen those in the one percent had put up. “Righteous and legal are two very things. Not everything that is legal is righteous and not everything that is righteous is legal.”

He braced for a jab, a retort, anything really, but it seems they were both as unpredictable as it came. 

“Did your mom feed you philosophy books?” 

He almost smiled, _almost_. He had only come to realize that this was the behavior that should be expected of this cheerful owl of a companion, but he did not mind at all. If anything, he saw this as a relief from the momentous demands this imperfect reality placed upon his shoulders. “It’s something I realized on my own a long time ago. That’s why I do what I do now.” He said quietly.

Bokuto looked at him incredulously. “So you do this for what, salvation? That’s pretty unorthodox not gonna lie.” He could not tell if that had come off as a joke, or an actual criticism. He had never been good at discerning those.

“I sense that you mock me, Bokuto-san.” He said, taking the bait of the former.

“Koutarou.” The other corrected.

“Bokuto-san.” He said, a little more forcibly now. “And believe me when I say if this was an unavoidable happenstance, we would not be sitting here right now, but this is the reality we live in, and it needs to be reborn.”

“And you believe fires will do that for you.” That was definitely drawn criticism, one Akaashi did not appreciate being at the receiving end off.

“The world respects fear, power, and if that is what they need to see to understand the trap we are being led to, then so be it. That is what I will give them.”

“And what if they don’t?” Bokuto asked. This was not the whole truth, he sensed, he was hiding something. He had to know what it was, not just for his own curiosity, but for the sake of trusting this strange man he had only met four days prior.

“What if they don't?” Akaashi repeated, confusion’s tidal wave washing over him.

“Take the hint. The police, the local government, they see it as an act of aggression, not a message from the heavens or whatever the hell you’re trying to say here. They think it’s an attack on the city.”

“And that is where they are wrong.” He hummed passively. “It is an attack, yes, but not on the city, rather on them. Act of aggression, rogue uprising, whatever they claim it to be, but the message is much louder than you think it is. You have just been too tainted by what your bosses’ feed you, you do not think much of the other half of the truth.”

He did not anger as expected, nor did he raise his voice in any manner which surprised even Akaashi who had learned to swallow down his anger for even the worst of circumstances. Despite this, even he would have shown some sign of rage at this statement’s behest, but Bokuto displayed none. 

“You won’t get your message through unless you eliminate the distortion in the channel.” 

Like a stone dropped in water, it sank, the truth that had pained so many into realizing this reality was never fit for the fair. Of course, this was not new to them at all, and it had been known years, even decades before this unwitting partnership, but it stabbed nonetheless, cackling at those who challenged it, and failed. In this situation, they were the challengers.

“Perhaps, but even so.” The light from the flames, and smoke from the rubble had snuffed out any hopes of seeing a clear sky tonight, but he still looked up in a futile attempt to see the stars. “That would be extremely difficult considering who the source of perversion is.”

A car rumbled down the winding dirt road, it would not take long before they were discovered. “It’s time to go.” 

* * *

“So you stayed.”

“You offered.”

He propped himself against the counter. His body still cried for sleep, his eyes were still blurred, he was not sure if he had seen right. Well, he was still not sure if he was seeing right, or thinking straight for that matter. “I did not think you would accept.” 

“Mm, I don’t have my go-away bag in the trunk for nothing.” Bokuto smiled as he slid a mug across the marbled counter.

“Fair enough.” Akaashi looked down at the mystery contents of the mug. He stared at it long and hard, utterly convinced he must have still been asleep. “What’s this?”

“Coffee, did I do it right?” Bokuto asked, momentarily looking up from his cooking to glance over his shoulder. Whatever he was working on smelled nice, but he didn’t have the energy to bob up so he stayed put, but at the sound of the universal wake-up call, he inspected the brownish liquid with a kind of fascination.

“Mhm, you did.” He said contentedly as he took a sip. It was better than the one he was used to, probably owing to the fact that he never bothered to learn how to brew actual coffee. Judging from the taste, they were probably the beans he’d gotten from a colleague almost three months ago, but had been sitting quite dejectedly in his cupboard.

“Bokuto-san-” _Oh god_. He was dreaming right? He wished for it right about now. Or maybe it was the coffee, did expired beans give you hallucinations? How to put this simply, Bokuto did not have a shirt on which was the part he did not necessarily mind. It was the scar that shocked him back to life. 

“Hm? Oh yeah.” He did not seem the least bit concerned that one, Akaashi was staring at him while he did not have a shirt on, and two, he was gaping at the dark red blemish that stretched across his back. “Sorry, forgot to mention that.” He said nonchalantly, like this was an everyday occurrence.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” 

He only shook his head. “It’s fine, everyone who knows me well enough has seen and asked.”

He took a deep breath and squinted at the window, where Helios’ gold emanated from the cusp of the horizon, bathing the world in it’s warm glow. “I can’t feel pain.” He said, like it too was something you would dish out as a conversation starter. “I know what it sounds like but-.”  
  
“No, I’ve read about this.” Akaashi tugged on his failing memory, it was rare but well-documented, a disease that rendered a person unable to feel physical pain. “It’s not exactly a nice thing to have when you’re a pyromaniac, is it?” He said, serious more than teasing, yet the man seemed to take it as the latter.

He laughed a little, amused smile forming on coffee-stained lips. “Mhm, yeah, you’re probably right.” He pointed towards the large scar. “That was from an accident when I was a kid. Fell off my bike and rolled down a hill, through some bushes, and a half-beaten fence. It wasn’t all that bad really.”

Akaashi’s eyes had finally cleared, yet he wished for them to remain unfocused. It was much more horrid than he had initially realized. Covering more than a third of his abdomen, scaled pink lines, the remnants of hastily sewn stitches, intersected with the faded red and beige. He had seen burns before, many of them, but the sight of the discolored skin made him nauseous.

“You’re having the thought, aren’t you?” Bokuto asked, raising an eyebrow at him.  
  
“I don’t know.” He said taking another sip of coffee, determined to push down the acrid taste of vomit.  
  


The older looked at him long and hard, awkward silence forming between them before he finally blurted out. “I’m not a glass vase that needs to be kept in a cardboard box labelled ‘Fragile: handle with care’.” He said, putting power into every word. “I’m every bit as human as you and everyone else, it’s just that my genes were programmed a little differently.”

“Mhm.” Akaashi said. Another man who wanted nothing more than to have a place in society despite the past continuously nipping at his heels. It was a story he was all too familiar with.

“I’m not a liability.” He said, gold eyes boring into his.

“Never said you were.”

He had taken him by surprise, Bokuto pausing for a minute, making sure he heard that right. He must have not been accustomed to such easeful acceptance of a supposed “disability” that had caused everyone who knew to treat him as the delicate flower he supposedly was. 

“Your turn.” He cleared his throat, breaking the silence that seemed to be a frequent visitor in their conversations. “I’ve opened up my entire heart over here, how about you?”

The guarded expression of the man who had been labelled as an uncrackable stone returned, and a dark cloud seemed to descend from the heavens, dissipating the gold glow from the streaming rays. 

“Nothing special.” He said plain and simple, but his tone indicated otherwise. “Dad was the son of a corporate official, and Mom was the daughter of a cabinet member, it was a match made in Heaven.” He paused for a moment pondering that comparison before correcting himself. “or Hell.”

He must have realized he had opened more questions than answers. “Before you ask” He hastily added. “House fire killed them both a few years ago. My grandparents cared more about mourning their trophy kids than taking care of their grandson, so it wasn’t too hard to detach from them.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.” Bokuto said, swallowing the bitter lump of guilt that had begun to form in his throat.

The other merely shrugged. “Mm, same as you. Everyone who knows me has probably heard the story.”

“And how many people is that?”

A crude smile formed on his face. “Not many, well, not enough for me to care anyway.” He said with an air of forced confidence that gave away the uncertainty it covered up.

“Solitude doesn’t suit you.”  
  
The thin smile transformed into an ironic laugh. “It’s served me much better than you realize.” Amusement did not dance in his eyes like it usually did when he laughed. Those dark blue eyes did not give any recognition that it even knew such an emotion. Today, it was merely a lifeless void, empty.

“You think it’s working out, but that’s because you never knew any other way of living.” Bokuto said, stepping from behind the counter to lean next to the slouched figure. “Stop me when I start going off-base.”

But he did not stop him, nor did he show any signs of protest. Empty eyes only fell back to the mug that he nursed. “It’s too late for me.” His voice was barely a whisper, like it too was convinced of the words it carried.

“Who says it is?” 

“Bokuto-san.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose in apparent exasperation, exhaling the equivalent of three breaths. “You think _this_ will prove me wrong?”

Confusion shaped his features, but it was feigned. Mere inches from each other, he knew exactly what he meant “And what exactly is this?” He asked as he reduced the inches to mere centimeters. They were so close, he could smell the gentle aroma of cedar wood and cinnamon bark.

“Nothing more than a convenient partnership.” The other said as he got up from his seat, and walked over to the desk at the center of the room, the one that had had files and locations and schematics dumped onto it. “Enough of the bullshit, help me with this.”

* * *

“The flame repellent fluid has been identified. It’s definitely homemade, from scratch too.” 

How long had it been since they started? Four, five hours maybe? Well, in however long it had been, whether four or five or six, they had accomplished absolutely nothing. He rapped the pen point on his forehead, hoping to kickstart some form of epiphany. 

“How’d he make something that potent, not even commercial gels would be able to withstand that kind of heat.” His brain throbbed, and he could feel the individual nerve pathways closing.

“Well whatever the case, this guy is brilliant.” Suzuki pointed out much too excitable for a topic of this gravity. “He used an ammonia base and synthes-”

“Ok, that’s enough.” His immediate deputy, Ito, interrupted raising his hand. He was more hot-headed than his master, and refused to let this rambling conversation go any further. “You said ammonia? Where’d he get it?”

“University a few miles away sold to a local who claimed to be making fertilizer for his field. I tracked the local down, a farmer on the outskirts, here’s the tricky part though.” He pulled out the purchase order. It didn’t make sense. “He only ordered half of what was bought.”

“So where’s the other half?” Ito asked suspiciously, eyeing the form with a dubious air.

“With whoever bought it. I’m guessing from your tone he didn’t go out and buy it himself?”

“An intermediary.” He confirmed. “He did all the transactions, also took care of the pick-ups and drop-offs. I have his address.”

“Alright, pack it up and leave in five.

“Order, sir?”

“Shoot-to-kill.”

* * *

_click._

It was strange to the younger, to hear the passive click without the resounding explosion that usually followed. Smoke still curled from the lit end of the Seven Star that sat lazily in the other’s lips, already hazy in its journey out through the open window.

“Do you really think the perfect reality exists?” Bokuto asked, another drag, another breath.

Akaashi did not know why he was so utterly fascinated with the man that stood before him. He had seen others like him, monarch’s lackeys, avid smokers, sometimes a little too crazed by the thought of literal and metaphorical flames, so what made him different? To his demeaning frustration, he did not have an answer to that question just yet.

“Mhm, but not with the way things are.” He responded, entranced by the wisps carried off to unforeseen destinations by the wind. How free it must feel, travelling on a pathless highway to nowhere, no plans, no worries, just adrift. 

“But no reality is perfect, no matter how you try to spin it.” The older pointed out. He was right of course, as he was with most things.

“But it could be better.” The retort was half-hearted, it felt like a silver lie on heavy-leaden lips. 

“What if there already is a place you can call your perfect reality, your heaven on earth? Somewhere you can be truly at ease with yourself.”

Did such a place exist? Akaashi did not think so, nor did he want to believe there to be any. Quite an enigmatic irony, the boy who had always sought ideality rather than actuality refused to entertain the possibility of such a fantasy. Perhaps it was the mists of sorrow, Akhyls’ tears he had been showered in time and time again. Perhaps it had eaten the hope right out of him.

“Where’s yours?” He asked curiously

The smoke stopped curling from his lips, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Tahiti, Paris, anywhere but here really.” He said, peaceful at the thought of leaving behind everything he knew to journey off to some foreign land. It all seemed too foolish for Akaashi, despite practically having done the same. “Although, Rome seems nice this time of year, don’t you think?”

“Rome? I did not take you for a history buff.” 

“Don’t know, but it’s one of those things that you can’t explain. I’ve always just felt at peace with the idea of being there.” Akaashi could not think to agree nor disagree. This whole illusion in itself, the main dream of peace ever existing in this reality we called home seemed to unearthly for him, and the existence of “perfect”, well, it only made him chuckle in acerbity.

“How about you then?” Bokuto asked, taking another drag. “Where’s yours?”

  
  


_knock knock._

* * *

“3..2..1..Breach! Breach!”

Armor-clad officers swarmed the apartment, guns drawn, looking for any sign of life. 

“All clear!”

Similar cries sounded through the apartment. Stifled breaths, darting eyes, it was empty.

“They were here, left maybe a few minutes ago.” The Inspector’s deputy interrupted. Coffee still hot, bathroom still moist, blankets and pillows strewn across the room. He was right.“Fucking find them then!” He barked at his men, they had trailed under his radar for too long now, he’d be damned if he let them wriggle their way out again.

“Sir!” His subordinate urgently flicked a finger, gesturing for the command team to follow him into the next room. 

Blueprints, charts, maps, the most detailed cartography of the whole city, and for that matter the entire south half of Japan was laid out in front of their very eyes. It would have been a beautiful sight if red had not streamed into 2D streets, and bled onto flat-roofed structures, and crimson ink was exercising its dominance.

He approached the array cautiously, tapping the big and bold locationary stamp that taunted them with today’s date. “Here.”

* * *

“We’re here.”

There were tales told to a little boy all those years ago, many had gotten lost in the forest, and very few returned from trips that delved deep into its heart. It was enough to make the child squirm in fear, with a promise to know the woodlands like it was his own home.Tall trees and overgrown vines that covered every inch of the man-made forest gave no locational landmark whatsoever, so it was not too hard to believe these fantastical tales, but reality or actuality in nature, the forest was still a dangerous place. Luckily, the boy had taken up on his promise. 

“What’s the story of this place, assuming it has one?” Bokuto asked curiously, as they appeared out of the tree line, to stand overlooking the shorn valley. Akaashi cursed under his breath, it was exactly how they’d left it.

“Everything has a story, Bokuto-san.” He said, tone too even for even the most level-headed individuals. He hoped not to arouse any suspicion in the other man, but this place gave off to many memories. “This, well this house has been particularly defiled over the years. The Minister of Public Health bought it with taxpayer money, and whatnot, used half a lifetime of funds to erect this extravagant vacation residence.”

“There’s something else, isn’t there.” 

Akaashi hated this place, he hated seeing it, he hated being here. All the more reason to burn it down, but Bokuto did not know that. He was convinced it was his deep hatred for the monarchical regime and their aids that led them to this unkempt palace in the woods.

“Mhm, you read me well.” He had to tell him, he hated being dishonest with those he cared for, even more than he hated this place of lost love and loathsome nightmares. “But it’s quite of a personal nature so I’d rather not reveal it just yet.”

Bokuto seemed to take the edge of his voice into account, as he did not interrupt the rest of their walk to the entrance. Of course, their entry point had been a rusted steel door on the other side of the property rather than the grand mahogany gates that overlooked the courtyard. He’d like to think it was for the eventual need for a discrete escape.

Or maybe it was because it reminded him too much of what he had lost. The expansive entryway with double parallel-stairs that he found quite pointless in nature, and the chandelier that glittered with thousands of diamonds. If the place had not been ransacked yet, it would still be there.

The rusted door was unlocked, its lock having lost its battle with time and the weather. It pushed in easily, and bade them entry into the moldy kitchen. Fond memories were not present here either, even at the reminiscence of sitting on the lap of an older woman, small hands shaping rice into what would later be his favorite afternoon snack. Push it to the back, don’t let it resurface, the woman had died years ago.

Kitchen led to the dining room which led to a sitting area and an office he could not bear to look at. Same old, same old, just memories he did not want to have back, a life he so desperately needed to forget for the sake of his own sanity.

He should have known it was not possible to cap off your inner demons entirely. The parallel staircases, and the mischievously glinting diamond tears that hung off a silver frame reminded him of just that as they stepped into the residence’s reception area. 

Reception area was a relative term, of course. It was meant to be a common room, a simple living space where the family could come together, and enjoy a little peace of mind with each other. Of course, the family who had lived in this home could have hardly been described as just that, and the greed of emerald eyes transformed the space into a main attraction for affluent power grabbers and wealthy corporate snakes.

“It’s beautiful.” Bokuto whispered as he stood in awe under the drops of diamond rain.

In the face of such beauty, how could you not utter a compliment? The chandelier was there for that very reason, to entrance guests with an air of avarice and cupidity. Even Akaashi had to admit that gawking would have been a rightful response, had he not known what that useless frame of metal had meant to him. 

“Mhm, such a shame we have to burn it down.” He hummed quietly, no shame or regret bearing down his words. He wanted to see it go more than anyone, after all.

He hurriedly pulled him along, up the carpet covered stairs. He hated how he had taken the right-hand one, the one that had always been assigned for going up. He hated how he was still preprogrammed to the habits and rituals that burrowed themselves into the child’s mind. 

They approached the landing, and he swore he glimpsed movement. _It was nothing,_ he berated himself, _they are not here to haunt you anymore._ The ghosts of his past were unshakeable, intertwined with his very being. That just made tearing this place to pieces that much more satisfying.

The mezzanine had always been his favorite spot in the modern castle. It was as peaceful as you could get, his room had too much noise from the outside, and he could hear his parents fight every night. The study room had too little light, and it was too quiet, you could hear your blood flowing through your veins. Here, it was a harmonious balance of both, with the added attraction of overlooking the so called reception area that he had come to loathe over the years.

It was his first time back in over fourteen years, yet time did not enforce any sentimental value in him. Standing on the very spots the child of two used to crawl upon, he wanted to burn it down more than ever.

The old Grandfather clock positioned right beside the stairs still worked. Shrill cacophony it still sang as its hands revealed the time. _11:32_. They were still early, god-forbid, he wanted to blow it now, he could not stand still, watching over the house when a simple lit fuse could blow it to Hell. But alas they had agreed on a midnight deadline, and the explosives could not be wired to match biased desire. They would have to wait.

“Might as well have some fun with it while we’re here.” Bokuto said, breaking the dangerous silence that fed Akaashi’s volatile train of thought. “May I have this dance?”

He was surprised at this request, but trust him to lighten the mood. His partner had impeccable timing, it seemed, even if he did not know of the internal war that was waging behind those tired eyes. He took the outstretched hand reluctantly, he would indulge him just this once, Akaashi thought as a gentle hymn echoed from the old phone.

  
  


_I could stay awake just to hear you breathing. Watch you smile_

_while you are sleeping, while you’re far away and dreaming._

  
  


“I haven’t danced in years, Bokuto-san.” He whispered as he placed a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, I never learned.” He chuckled.

  
  


_I could spend my life in this sweet surrender. I could stay lost in this moment forever._

_Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure._

  
  


They swayed and stepped on dusty marble as the moonlight washed over them, bathing his vision with a silvery glow. It was strange, silence so deafening, only pierced by the warm melody carrying through once cold and lifeless air. His rage dissipated with the rise and fall of each note, his mind only focused on rhythmic steps and the comforting presence that moved with him. 

  
  


_I don’t wanna close my eyes. I don’t wanna fall asleep_

_‘cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t wanna miss a thing._

_‘Cause even when I dream of you, the sweetest dreams will never do,_

_I'd still miss you, baby, and I don’t wanna miss a thing._

  
  


_Peace._

Was this what peace felt like? It felt wrong finding peace in the very place you lost it. It was a truth Akaashi could not, or did not want to entertain for the acceptance of his descent into madness, the lost of the tranquility that he so desperately desired in his life, the burning rage that had driven him that the world needed to fall by flames, only for it to be handed back to him on the cusp of the new Age. This was the universe’s game, he realized, and he was merely a pawn in it. 

But the universal architects did have horrid timing, time was not a reliable force of nature in their eyes, and it was one they often chose to ignore. Was this a long-overdue apology, returning the peace they had snatched away from him by way of their own raging inferno almost fourteen years ago? Akaashi wondered, should he finally accept it?

_I don’t wanna miss one smile, I don’t wanna miss one kiss._

_I just wanna be with you just like this._

_What if there already is a place you can call your perfect reality, your heaven on earth?_

The question had been unanswerable to him at the time of inquiry. He had known nothing but heartache and anguished sorrow from his moment of conception into this sordid reality. He did not even think such a place existed, before he had met the fire-hungry stranger. As was with most things, however, he had been proven wrong.

This was his perfect reality, his heaven on earth, this very moment of ease and tranquility that kissed away his fears of the past. The silvery apparition of the boy at two who watched his parents fight over their marriage of convenience dissolved into thin air. Nightmares and tormented thoughts no longer needed to be bound to this palace he had once called home, only these memories of peace, and joy, and warmth.

_I just wanna hold you close, I feel your heart so close to mine,_

_and just stay here in this moment for all the rest of time._

So he accepted, he opened his heart to the peace the universe had finally given him. He opened his heart and let comfort and ease wash over him, maybe just this once, maybe once again, maybe for the rest of eternity, he did not know, and as he rested his head on the shoulder of the man that had given this gift to him, for the first time in his short, unfortunate existence, he was at peace.

But it should have been known to the boy who wanted to replace silver with gold that the universal architects never had been kind creatures, nor did they carry any euphoric sentiments for those that had wished to not walk alone on this journey. It was them, after all, that brought him to face this storm, and with all inimical aspirations in place, they yearned to do just that.

_I don’t wanna close my eyes. I don’t wanna fall asleep_

_‘cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t wanna miss a thing._

_‘Cause even when I dream of you, the sweetest dreams will never do,_

_I’d still miss you, baby, and I don’t wanna miss a thing._  
  


“It’s time.” The younger whispered as the wailing of distant sirens penetrated the calm-lined quietude. He released his grasp, and bounded towards the awaiting charges. The Grandfather clock, worn with age let out another shrill disharmony as its brass hands struck another minute. 11:35. It was too early.

Too late, too early, it seemed time did not matter to the invading pests either. Puppets of the universal architects in every right, Akaashi sighed as his hands flew over wires and gears, incautiously reprogramming the explosives to go off at an earlier time. Unfortunately, they did not take well to biased desire.

“Shit!”

Hails of bullets battered the handcrafted marble, as armored men slammed through once-grand mahogany gates that had been reduced to all but ashen splinters. Puncturing and chipping, metal soared through the open space, desperately seeking to sink into flesh without reprieve. 

“I need more time.” But he knew there was none left, it was now or never, and never seemed like a particularly promising path. The guns discharged too fast, the bullets flew too prodigiously. Bokuto knew this too, by the looks of it, yet unwavering optimism overshadowed shattering doubt as he loaded the incendiary into its device.

“It’s ok, Kaashi-kun. If we just-”

_ping._

That was all it took, a single, pinpoint ricochet, and in the split second metal met metal, the chains on the cage snapped, setting the roaring tongues of fire free from captivity. The dance of red and gold would have been a beautiful sight to behold, it should have been, if only-

“Bokuto-san.”

The embers had been angered by their forced imprisonment, and they sought revenge. For a split second, only panic and shock travelled through his gold eyes as Bokuto looked down at the flames licking at his feet.

“Go, now.” He said as he smiled softly, reassured calm returned to his face. “I have to blow this thing before they close the exit.” _It’s alright, it’s ok,_ he seemed to say, but the boy who had lost too much could not bear to lose another one. He had grown fondness over the other after all, defiant of his odds with reality. He realized that had been a mistake.

“No, I-I can’t.” He barely managed to stammer out. His legs refused to move, cemented to the ashen ground that had begun to crack under his feet. His arms laid at his side, limp and lifeless. 

Hell’s greyed fingers clamped around his throat, squeezing the oxygen out of him to feed the flames that kept it alive. It was not like the smoke that curled from the lit end of a Seven Star, nor was it like the smoke from the abandoned warehouse, thick and searing, yet intoxicating all the same. This, this was just suffocating, it felt like he was being held down under the surface of the waves, he struggled, clawing for air, but none would come to him.

“Bokuto-san, please.” It was futile to beg, the forces of nature did not beg, nor did they respect any gesture of human pleas. They did not hold any sentiment to anyone, even those who had been pained by eternal damnation at their own hands. 

_Acceptance._ Fucking acceptance of a man who knew he had lost his battle with time itself. Bokuto emanated it, radiating off of him like a goddamn nuclear reactor, replacing the unwavering optimism that had failed him for the first time. Yet with the resignation of a man who was always destined to be the defeated came hidden, undying determination to see through a cause he had been made to believe in, and Akaashi could only watch as he pulled out the obsidian black box, the one that had carvings of liquid gold, and flicked it open. 

The flame was small in the foreground of the raging inferno, but it only took a little to go nuclear, and Bokuto knew that better than anyone.

He bent down and lit the fuses, there was no turning back now, and that is exactly what he wanted. As he gazed into the face of the wide-eyed man who could only helplessly watch as he stepped back to the gaping hole in the railings that the fires had eaten away, a silent apology passed between them. He had never meant it to end this way.

 _Take me, swallow me whole_. He whispered to the red and gold. The belly of the beast, no matter how satiated it had been, always emerged from its cave, hungering for more. The beast had just broken through, this is what it wanted. 

“See you in Rome, Keiji.”

And so he fell backwards into the waiting jaws of the inferno that had been his faithful companion for all these years. He did not hear the younger’s screams, nor did he hear the roar of the beast that desired for more than a mere mortal soul could give, he only heard the whipping of the wind, and the forked tongue of Hell’s embers binding him from escape.

And he welcomed the flames like an old friend.

* * *

He didn’t remember running through grass that ash had blanketed, leaving behind flaming wreckage, and charred remains in his wake.

He didn’t remember yelling at the maw of the black star-lit sky, cursing at whichever gods were chuckling at his mortal misfortune.

He didn’t remember anything at all, actually.

Just the incessant ringing that made his ears ooze with warm blood, and the last words of a man who had finally given him peace, only to snatch it away once again.

* * *

“We found the ammonia-bomb outside the Police Commissioner’s house, with you sitting right next to it.” 

The man leaned across the table, shadowing the cracked and taped photo, the one that he did not need to see. His eyes glint dark as coals, bemused, amused he grinned. A fly in a web, if you would, but not in the roles the dear Inspector thought.

“Is it true you did not resist arrest?” 

Yet the other only sat quietly, boring his eyes into this grimy little man who had only ever known one side of the table. Let him bite, let him sneer, let him regale in his fool-minded joy, a predator could not let it’s prey know when it was to pounce.

“He’s gone, Akaashi-kun.” 

The photo recollected, shoved into the bulging folder as if it were just another one of them, a nameless soul hidden in the depths of dusted archives, waiting to see the light of day once more. But is that not what they were all destined to become? A picture on paper, and a name in the wind? 

“You do not have to protect him. Even the police do not prosecute the dead.”

The pawn smirked so conceitedly, yellowed teeth peering between the partition of parched lips. He thinks he has won, but through the cacophony, his sight fell short, and vision tunneled narrow, a flaw that had been exploited by so many. A simple mind was easy to fool because it did not see through the smoke, nor could it discern fantasy from actuality. It simply accepted what was right in front of it.

“Were you too much of a coward to go through with it by yourself, so much so you had to bring someone along with you, sacrifice them in the process, was that the plan?” He was intrigued, his impatience was seen through the tailored suit he had traded in his tanned coat for. He tapped, writhered, eyes and ears hungrily eating up whatever foreign object it could sense.

_Hear my song, sway to its beat, the beating of the drums, you hear that right? But no, it is not the drum of mandate, of law, of written rule and spoken order that you hide your filth behind. It’s the beat of a new age, the era I have heralded in, with the red and gold of Satan’s flames._

_Hear my song, sway to its beat, the beating of the drums, the ones you hear. Eat my voice, every note, every word, and syllable that rolls out of my lead-laden tongue, and maybe you shall see that this was nothing more than a charade, built in the labyrinth of my mind. You have won, no, you think you have, but thought is such an intangible notion, so easy to believe in, without realizing it leads you into a trap._

“Do not trade dignity for assumptions.” 

“Then what should I trade them in for?”

But he once again falls into the silent step. It seems this man was not as fragile as he had thought, an unfortunate miscalculation on his part, but he had already cracked, like the fine porcelain he was, all he had to do was widen the fissure just a little more, or so he thought. _Thought, thought, thought._

“You are the reason he’s dead, Akaashi-kun.”

Impatient as ever, to be expected from a man in blue. Bide your time, time is a construct, although it did not matter much to the servants of the universal architects, of which he was not. The charges were set, they did not like to be disturbed by biased desires, so bide his time he must. 

“Don’t you think I know that already?”

_Play me like a fiddle, try as you might, but I have you in my grasp. You are the fly caught in my web, and I will make good on my promise of deliverance._ He licked his lips, hungry for more, yet he was unmatched by the beast in his belly that desired for more than a mere mortal could give. 

“Not for the reasons he knew. You destroyed your father’s house, your childhood home to selfishly run away from your inner demons.”

Assumptions should not be made so easily on the basis of smoked-out lies and fallacious truths, but this is what he liked to do. Tell them a lie, and they will bite back, pride was always the trigger. But this is what he failed to see, the man before him had no pride, nor ambition, nor drive, but merely a shell that had masqueraded as a mortal being, only placed to deliver a final message.

And what a message that would be, glorious, spectacular, the crowds would surely go wild! For you see, their vision was tunneled, as the ring leader was, they had clapped for the wrong act. They had not even the faintest idea that what they saw was a sham. Their minds were simple, rotten to the core by lies that they had been fed, but don’t they worry, the time has come to put them out of their misery.

_Do not fret, dear Inspector. for I have not forgotten about you. But your time will come, sooner than most, I’m sorry to not have given you some notice, but it will be much more exciting this way._

“Why do you try so hard for a man you met only a month ago?”

There it was, the question on everyone’s mind. The crowd leans forward, caught in the trap that was set by the spider, not even the ringleader knew. For all they saw was a broken man, cut through the middle in two, but might he add, he was not just a broken man, he was a pianist too. And he played a song, enchanting to most, no one could see right through. Not even the ringleader, who continued to squirm in the seat he was so accustomed too, could not but help but stare.

“We both knew it would come down to this.”

Audible gasps could be heard, as the pianist prepared for his second concierto. 

“And you decided to risk it, and for what? The petty cause of humanity’s annihilation? You must have known that was an impossibility in itself.”

He laughed, breathily, airy, he only had to bide his time. He returned the favor, a sneer so cold, even the fires would not have been able to melt it. He was enjoying this, he supposed he deserved it, before he showed everyone his hand, an Ace, a Queen and a Jack. But little did they know, there was a fourth card, can you guess what it was?

“You police have such a simplistic way of thinking, but these days, nothing is ever as simple as we’d like.”

“So enlighten me then, a simple man. What am I missing?”

“Koutarou wanted to go to Rome, he said it was his heaven on earth. I couldn’t understand why, and to be frank, I still don’t. He told me he didn’t either but he knew, it was the peace, the quiet, undeterred freedom where he could walk without the chains that wore him down.”

He smiled at the memory, a genuine smile at that. The one good thing that had been gifted to him in his meager mortal life. Filled with regret those memories came, and he only could sigh. What he would give to see him again, and tell him all he had done. 

“Thank god for my neighbour knocking because when he asked me, well how do you answer a question like that when you’d never seen heaven on earth. I did not even think it was possible for such a place to exist. He proved me wrong, as he did in many things.” 

A single tear streaming down the ashen cheek, glimmering like an accursed diamond. Such a strange display of vulnerability by the man that had been deemed uncrackable. But if the other man took this as a sign of weakness, that the fissure was finally starting to open, he was very wrong. The younger only allowed people in for two reasons. One, when he cared for them deeply, which was a rarity in itself, and only one person had truly fit the bill, and two, the more likely scenario, when they would not live to tell the tale. And so he smiled, ever so serenely, at the Inspector who fit in the second.

“Heaven on earth to me is home, and Koutarou, he was my home.”

He had bade his time, it was almost here, all he had to do was breathe. He would see him once again, the love he had lost, in that perfect reality they had dreamed. The tears flowed, and so did the pianist’s fingers, bewitching the audience in a trance, as he began his final allegro. 

“What we had, it was no longer just a convenient partnership, Inspector Furutani. It was love.”

“Love?”

“Yes, the kind that wills you to life every morning, and helps you breathe a little easier in the face of a raging storm. The kind that sings a song of endearment and tenderness, and the promise that no one will have to walk alone. The kind that gives you a home in this sordid reality.” 

Smoke. He could smell the smoke. There should not have been any, but there it was, wafting in the air. Of course, it was not really there, a figment of his imagination, but so he dreamed, on and on, for at his touch, thought would turn into reality.

“Maybe you’d understand what that feels like one day.”

The other man only grinned, and guffawed at this confession. Love seemed like much to a ridiculous thing to be anything but truthful. He could see the regret that wavered in the younger’s eyes, regret that, he thought, was the culmination of a month of mistakes and blind foolishness that had resulted in more loss than he had wanted.

“Hindsight would have suited you well, Akaashi-kun.”

He turned to leave, bulging folder in hand, but please sit back down sir, the show was not done, the pianist was still playing up a storm. 

“Is that all? You just wanted to see me break for your own satisfaction, didn’t you?”

He refused, tickets were non-refundable but he had already gotten what he had come for. He had not realized yet, this act was a sham too. He thinks he has won, twiddling his thumbs conceitedly, but the real show had only yet begun.

“Would it intrigue you to know that there was a stone left unturned?” 

“Another job?”

“You’re interested again.”

He sat back down, careening over the younger. The pianist’s fingers ached, they ached so bad, his eyes watered, his lungs burned, yet he continued. Time was a construct, one that had been created by mere mortals, universal architects did not follow such unwritten laws. But this time, this once, he would overrule them all, the ringleader, the audience, the architects, and whoever dared to blockade his path. 

“What was it?”

The final note was a beautiful one, a delicate C minor. The pianist stood up, breathed a sigh, and bowed to an adoring audience. They had still not realized this was too a sham, that the real show was about to start. The predator beckoned his prey forward, come as he might. And as the curtains closed, the pianist stepped to the front, whispering ever so softly.  
  


“To paint the town red.”

  
  
  


_click._

_BOOM._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_See you in Rome, my love._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hahaha....sorry....but if you made it here :DD thank you for reading it!! just wanna take this time to thank everyone who helped me through the process of writing this (you know who you are) love yall to bits!!
> 
> the song i used here is "I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing" by Aerosmith highly recommended you go listen to it
> 
> if you want to scream at me"  
> Twitter: @sakuspvce


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